Unreachable
by Shellsanne
Summary: What happens to an angel descending into madness, left alone by his friends, in the care of a demon? This is Castiel's story. Takes place after 7:17.
1. Cas

_**Unreachable**_

Author: Shellsanne  
Fandom: Supernatural  
Characters: Castiel, Lucifer, Dean, Sam, Meg, and Daphne  
Genre: Lots of angst, no slash (but some sexual situations)  
Spoilers: This takes place after season 7, episode 17  
Notes: 6 chapters

Comments welcome! Please comment

x

* * *

The madness was trapped in a small space in his mind, a kind of celestial holding cell constructed in the moments after the transfer from Sam's mind to his. It took every ounce of his strength, the entirety of his attention, every fiber of his being, to hold it there. It was exhausting, debilitating, and futile. He knew it wouldn't last. But for five days he kept the madness imprisoned in those cell walls.

On the sixth day they began to crumble.

x

* * *

The second to last coherent thing that Castiel did before losing his mind was paint the walls, door and window of his dreary hospital room with angel-proofing sigils, barriers that he could never cross, effectively sealing himself in.

He drew them with his own blood. He'd crushed an empty glass against the frame of his bed, then slashed the length of his inner forearm with one of its jagged fragments. He painted the window first.

It took a few minutes before anyone noticed the commotion in his room; patient "Emmanuel" had been catatonic since his admission six days earlier, posing no risk to himself or anyone else, so constant supervision had not been required. Castiel might have finished the entire room undetected if not for the cleaner passing by who glanced in and began shrieking at the top of her lungs. Chaos ensued then.

Three orderlies, a nurse, and two doctors fought to restrain him as he frantically smeared the ancient Enochian symbols across the walls, one after another, blood dripping from each massive glyph as he rushed on to the next. He easily fended off his assailants, sending bodies hurling across the room and crashing into walls, into medical equipment, into each other, with a mere touch. The entire hospital staff could have descended on that room to stop him, and they would have failed. He would have killed them all if that's what it took to complete his task, and to complete it correctly—each sigil had to be perfect. A single flaw could be catastrophic. And so Castiel remained fiercely, manically, focused.

Meg watched quietly from the corridor, through the open door. She was the only person present who didn't try to stop him.

At one point during the frenzy his eyes locked on hers, wild and desperate and filled with pain. Whether he recognized her or not was difficult to say. With a flick of his gashed wrist, the door slammed shut, so violently that the entire corridor shook (though no one who was present would later admit to it), and he went to work etching a sprawling, bloody glyph on his last remaining access to the outside world.

The last coherent thing that Castiel did before losing his mind was make a conscious decision to allow himself to be subdued. Reality itself was imploding in the angel's head, a detonation of mass destruction imminent, in the moment that he felt a needle plunging into his forearm. And Castiel decided in that moment that the harmless human drug flowing into his nervous system would be the one to take him down, to neutralize him every time, now and always, and that this decree was permanent and irrevocable. And so it was. And as his body began to sink into the clutch of flailing, grappling arms, as the world began fading into blackness, he hoped someone had taken note of the only drug that would immobilize him.

The second to last coherent thought Castiel had before losing his mind was in the form of prayer. He prayed that he'd done everything he could to protect the world from him. That it would be enough.

And the last coherent thought he had before darkness descended was of Dean. Dean leaving him behind. And he was grateful.

x


	2. Lucifer

x

* * *

The darkness lifted into a muted grey light.

From very far away he thought he could hear someone counting.

He felt strange, dizzy. His head hurt. It was hard to see clearly, harder still to think. He was confused and disoriented. Everything was fuzzy. The after-effects of the drug they administered, perhaps.

He had no idea where he was, and for an instant he was gripped by sheer terror. _Where was he? Where was everyone else? Why was it so quiet?_

He steadied himself with a deep breath. His fear was irrational. He just needed to think his way through this.

Wherever he was, he was still in corporeal form. He could see his hands in the dim light, his legs, the non-descript garments the hospital had clothed him in.

_But this didn't look like the hospital._

He lay on a cold stone floor. Blinking to clear the fog from his vision, he could see that he was surrounded by grey brick walls, about four feet away on all sides. Above him, he couldn't so much see as feel that the ceiling was very close, too low for him to stand. In the air hung the cloying thickness, the staleness, of cramped, closed-in space.

He was in a cell. The cell where his madness had been held.

A tremble coursed through his body. Fear. Fear of not knowing. Fear that he'd gotten things horribly wrong. Fear that if he was in here, then the madness was … _out there_…

Out there, where someone was definitely counting.

There was nothing in the cell with him. It was empty, and cold, and deliberately devoid of any distinction, any feature on which to rest his attention. It was designed to be blank. There was nothing on the walls. There was no door. But there was a window…

"…ninety-three…ninety-four…"

The voice was distinct now, as if someone had just turned up the volume.

It was through the glass-paneled opening in the wall in front of him that the light spilled in from outside. Whatever lay outside.

"…ninety-six…"

He shuffled quietly, carefully, along the floor toward the window as the counting continued—

"…ninety-nine…"

and peered through.

"One _hundred!_" bellowed Lucifer. "Ready or not, little brother, _here I come!_"

Outside the window was Castiel's hospital room. In an instant he took all of it in. The door was closed and the walls were still covered in his Enochian symbols (though they didn't look quite like the ones he had drawn). A plastic pitcher filled with flowers stood on his bedside table. An IV pole stood on the other side, connecting him to various drip-feeds. His body lay lifelessly in the bed, his face looking pale, gaunt, his eyes opened in a vacant, glazed stare, seeing nothing. Castiel thought the body in the bed looked dead.

But the figure hovering over it looked very much alive. "Come out come out wherever you are!" cried a malevolently grinning Lucifer. He began a mock-search of the room, pulling back the curtain that served as a door to the bathroom, checking behind chairs, ducking his head down to investigate under the bed, and Castiel edged to a corner of the window in order to watch discreetly.

Lucifer stood with his back to the window, sighed as if in defeat, and then very slowly turned around. And gazed directly at Castiel through the glass pane that separated them.

"Looks like I've got you," he said in a soft, singsongish lilt, lips stretching across his teeth in a cold, savage leer, his eyes sparkling with spiteful glee. Castiel's breath caught.

As his brother moved closer to the window, Castiel scrambled backward along the floor, cowering into the far corner.

"Oh _come_ on, Cassie," said Lucifer, pressing his face against the glass. "Don't be like that. You'll hurt my feelings."

Castiel could only stare at the face staring in at him. He felt terrified in a way he'd never felt terror before, and he understood that it wasn't entirely his own, that this was at least in part _Sam's_ fear. But that understanding wasn't helping now.

"I just want to catch up, that's all. I mean, how long has it been? Don't you wanna talk? Maybe have one of those sweet brotherly bonding moments?" He cupped his hands around his face as he peered in, impaling Castiel to the wall with his glare. "I know you always reserved those moments for your precious Dean. But you know what?" He lowered his voice apologetically. "You were never that precious to him, kiddo. And these days… oh, how do I put this delicately?" He pulled his hands away and flashed a smile at his brother. "He _despises _you."

Castiel shut his eyes.

"But you know that, don't you?" he said lightly. And waited for an answer.

"You know he hates you. Don't you." Less lightly this time.

Castiel realized dimly that his entire body was shaking.

"Answer me, Cassie."

Castiel tried desperately to focus on something else, anything else, an image, a thought, a prayer—

"_ANSWER ME!_"

"Yes!" cried Castiel. "I know!"

"You know _what?_"

"I know that Dean hates me! I _know_…" And he pulled himself into a tight, trembling ball on the cold floor, what humans referred to as a fetal position.

"Good," soothed Lucifer. "Now doesn't that feel better?" He paused. "I mean, it answers so many questions. Why he left you here, why he never came back… Hey. Look at me."

Castiel jolted with the sudden thundering bang of something slamming against the wall, presumably his brother's fist.

"_Look at me_ when I talk to you!" he shouted, his voice an explosion in the tiny cell.

Castiel did as told, sat up and pressed himself so tightly against the back wall that it hurt, and met Lucifer's burning eyes.

"It's just the polite thing to do," Lucifer cooed in that singsong voice again. The shifting extremes of tone were deliberate, Castiel knew, designed to destabilize him. But once again, understanding didn't help. "I mean, who the heck raised you with manners like that?" He winked at Castiel and grinned. "Speaking of manners, do you realize you haven't invited me in yet? That's cold. Although I have to admit..." and he squinted into the cell's darkness, "it does look a little cramped in there. Looks none too comfy neither. So, here's a thought." He took a step back and threw his arms out to his sides. "Why don't you come out _here?_"

Castiel inadvertently turned his head away.

"Don't look away from me, little brother," threatened Lucifer icily. "I can make things even worse for you in there."

Castiel complied miserably, helplessly, and Lucifer continued without missing a beat. "But if you come out here, you don't have to worry about that. You'll have all this space, we can cuddle up together on a nice warm bed … we'll talk, we'll laugh, we'll cry …"

His features softened now, his gaze resting on the imprisoned angel with an expression of sincerity, of sympathy. "Your friends have abandoned you, Castiel. Our father gave up on you long ago. Our brothers and sisters … well, the ones you didn't deep-fry are scattered to the four corners, and too terrified to come anywhere near you again." He drew close to the window, his voice soft and resonant with compassion. "But _I'm_ here. And I won't leave you. I wouldn't do that to you, not after everything you've been through. Besides, I'm not just family. I'm your big brother. And someone's got to look out for you." He tipped his forehead against the glass, and Castiel felt strangely transfixed by the soft glow of his eyes. "We have so much to talk about, Cassie, there's so much I want to tell you. Let me be your brother. Let me help you. Please. Come on out."

Castiel lifted an arm and gestured to the walls surrounding him, as he pushed himself back even further into the one behind him, as if it might give way and he could disappear into it. "I … can't," he replied brokenly.

Lucifer smiled, and it almost seemed affectionate. "You know, I've always found that kind of endearing. The way you sometimes forget just how powerful you are."

Castiel merely stared at him, uncomprehending.

"You're not trapped in there, Cassie. If you want out, all you have to do is decide." He watched him, and Castiel could see tiny daggers of flame leaping across his retinas, casting a flickering red glow across the walls of his cell. "So go on. Decide."

The moment stretched, and Castiel felt frozen. He knew he should speak. He should state his resolve. He should be so much stronger than this…

And then his brother started laughing, softly. "Ah, look at you. Shivering in the headlights. Poor little angel." He clicked his tongue and tilted his head. "I wonder what it is you're so afraid of?" But Castiel could see from the fire dancing in his brother's eyes that he didn't wonder at all. That he knew exactly what Castiel should fear. "I truly do not want to hurt you. And I certainly don't want to see you reduced to a drooling vegetable. All I want is to bring you back to the human fold, Cassie. Back to the world."

Castiel could hear the truth in his words, and it sent a chill through his body.

"But I can wait," Lucifer said brightly. "I'm a patient guy. And there's no rush. We've got until—" and he glanced at the oversized watch that suddenly appeared on his wrist, then beamed at Castiel, "—the end of time."

And with that the laughter returned, this time harsh and mocking and vicious, and rising in decibel level as Castiel cringed from its sound, until the volume grew to a deafening, unbearable roar that shook the cell walls and rattled its window, and for one desperate moment Castiel was sure it would shatter. He cowered in the corner, pressing his hands uselessly against his ears, unable to look away from the monster on the other side of the glass.

x


	3. Meg

x

* * *

Another fluorescent bulb was on the blink in the overhead panel, creating a dismal, sputtering strobe effect all along the east wing corridor. Meg wondered as she passed beneath it if it was her demonic presence that caused them to keep burning out, or an overall lack of funding for things like decent bulbs. This place wasn't exactly Cedar Sinai.

But then she wasn't exactly a nurse.

She stopped at the door to Room 613 and glanced down at the chart in her hands. The patient in 613 had been officially diagnosed with catatonic schizophrenia, following a battery of invasive tests to rule out any physiological causes of his non-responsive stupor and, later, the arrival of the distraught wife telling tales of how she'd found him wandering naked and confused along a riverbank. What the east wing's new psychiatric intern excitedly recognized as a classic fugue state. That clinched the diagnosis. Two weeks later, however, after the violent outburst that sent five people to the emergency room with everything from concussions to fractured arms to broken ribs, the words "bipolar," "psychotic" and "suicidal" had been scribbled in the margins of his chart.

He was treated with a plethora of benzodiazepines in ever-increasing dosages. No drug had any effect on his condition whatsoever. Apart, Meg couldn't help noticing, from the thorazine that knocked him out cold the day of his "manic episode" and undoubtedly saved countless lives… Meg couldn't care less about the human lives spared, but she was blown away by the sheer force of will that must have required. The angel won her respect that day.

Nurse Masters, as the badge pinned to her white coat read, inserted a thin card into a slot in the door. A green light blinked on and she pushed it open. Only she and Dr. Kadinsky had key cards, and access, to this room. It was her first recommendation as the specialist assigned to this case (specializing, as it happened, in catatonia). No one else—no other doctors, no other nursing staff, not even cleaners—was allowed access at any time. She'd banned visitors as well, citing the patient's violent extremes as too great a risk, but Kadinsky had overruled that one, insisting that brief visits from family and friends could be critical to his recovery. Nurse Masters couldn't exactly tell him that the patient _had _no friends or family. Apart from her, of course.

And that wife.

"Good morning, sunshine," she cooed to the motionless form on the bed. She tugged at the window blind and it spun dutifully up, revealing the carefully etched Enochian symbol on the glass beneath. She gave it an appreciative gaze. "I should've been an artist."

Kadinsky had grumbled over her appeal to keep the patient's bizarre markings emblazoned across the walls, but she argued they provided him a crucial sense of security, of protection (suppressing the urge to add that it was the good doctor's ass, not to mention the entire hospital and population of the Midwest, being protected). Besides, she reminded him, this was after all her area of expertise. The doctor grudgingly agreed, under the condition that the eccentric artwork be re-drawn in something less "distasteful" than the patient's blood.

And so one night Meg had painstakingly and methodically, almost lovingly, re-created every symbol in earthy shades of amber, beige and teal. No harm in bringing a little aesthetic chic to the miserable room, she'd thought.

She crossed over to the angel's bedside and pressed a button on the side-rail. With a rattle and a labored groan, the bed raised him into a sitting position. She peered down at his face, at the empty blue eyes and waxy pallor of his skin, and marveled at how even in a vegetative state this vessel was undeniably beautiful. She traced an index finger lightly, slowly, along his jawline and down the curve of his neck.

"So what do you say, hotwings? Want me to fluff your pillow?"

He stared ahead emptily. As he always did.

"So pretty, and yet…" She sighed. "So dull as dishwater."

She sank into a chair and tossed the chart on the bedside table, next to the ridiculous spray of daffodils that wife had brought in. Glass was no longer allowed in 613, so Meg had stuffed them unceremoniously into a plastic water jug.

"You know, when I signed up for this gig, I thought it was going to be a helluva lot more interesting than this." She cast her eyes moodily on Castiel. "I thought I'd at least get to strap you to the bed. I was looking forward to watching you squirm against leather restraints." She shrugged innocently. "Nothing like a little bondage to brighten a girl's day. Break up the monotony."

She flicked at the wrist restraint that hung from the side-rail, a stock fixture to all the beds in this corridor. "Guess I could still do it…" She glanced at the closed door. Kadinsky wasn't on for another four hours. It wasn't like anyone would be coming in.

She reached over the rail and coiled her fingers around Castiel's wrist, noticing the warmth of his skin, the faint beat of his pulse, and raised his arm a few inches over the mattress. Then let go. His arm didn't move. It remained hanging in the air, as stiff and lifeless as a mannequin's.

"Even _I _find that creepy," Meg grimaced. She shoved his arm back down to the mattress.

She sighed, restless, annoyed now, and already bored. And then she had a thought.

She stood up, brushing the folds from her white coat. "I think it's time we test you for response to external stimuli. And in my professional opinion," she said, lowering her patient's bed-rail, "we haven't tried every stimulus yet." She sat down on the bed, facing him, making sure she filled his sightline. She smiled at him, then slid the coat from her shoulders and let it fall to the floor. "Let's see if you deliver, pizza man."

She began slowly unbuttoning her blouse, her eyes fixed on his. And from this angle, it almost looked like he was looking back. She doubted he was, but she didn't mind pretending. In fact, she was just a little surprised by how much she didn't mind…

She let the blouse fall open, then moved her fingers to the clasp between her breasts. She snapped it open, and in one swift motion slipped blouse and bra from her shoulders and onto the floor.

He stared at her emptily.

She took his hand then, the hand that had hung frozen in the air, and lifted it gently to her bare chest. She coaxed its fingers around the swell of her left breast, feeling her own tingly response to his touch. Then she let go. His hand didn't move.

"Oh Cas," she purred with a Cheshire-cat grin, "if the boys could see you now."

After a moment, becoming aware of feeling weirdly self-conscious, she shifted a few inches to one side. The vacant eyes stared at the wall now, and the hand cupped empty space.

Meg huffed. "You are just determined to take all the fun out of this for me, aren't you."

"That's what I keep telling him," said Lucifer.

From the darkness that enveloped him, Castiel could see his brother looming through the cell window. He was sitting on the bed beside him, and across from the half-naked demon oblivious to his presence. Castiel's body lay sandwiched between them, and both were watching him. It had an unnerving effect on the angel.

His perspective through the window had changed since that first day. People looked directly at him now, directly through the window, without knowing it. They couldn't see him in here, of course. Only his brother could do that. But he was able to look directly back at them. The view was static now, unless someone on the outside physically moved him. He saw what he was positioned to see. And people filtered in and out of his vision like performers on a television screen. It was an unsettling feeling, looking into eyes that gazed back without seeing him, responding to words spoken to him that no one but his brother ever heard.

He could still feel their touch though—less and less every day, a steadily diminishing sensation, but he was still aware of physical contact. And that was unsettling as well. Watching contact through the window, remote and separate from him, but _feeling_ it in his own skin—the occasional sting of needles, the pressure of arms repositioning his body, a hand holding his—all the while utterly alone in this empty cell. Like phantom sensations.

He'd been very much aware of the demon's breast beneath his hand, the warmth of her skin, the tightening of her nipple under his palm. While Lucifer laughed with delight at his helplessness.

"Don't worry, little brother," he soothed, tilting his head toward Meg, who looked frustrated as she pushed the angel's arm back down to the mattress. "Show's not over yet."

"I'm not interested," said Castiel in a strained, weary voice.

"Oh come _on_, Cassie! You can't tell me you're not at least tempted." Lucifer's leer raked her over lustily. "I'll bet she could teach you a few things…" And now he redirected the leer at Castiel. "I'll bet I could teach you both a few things."

"You're not real," the angel murmured, uncertain anymore of how true that was. Reality, as he viewed it from his prison cell window, had become increasingly elusive, and exhaustingly indefinable.

As if hearing his doubts, Lucifer asked, "Are you sure?"

And Castiel watched as he leaned toward the demon on the bed, pursed his lips, and blew softly into her ear. Meg's head lolled back, her breath hitched, and her eyes fluttered closed. A small gasp escaped her lips. Castiel could almost feel her heartbeat skipping. When she opened her eyes, her face flushed and glowing, she gazed at the angel and smiled. And then she reached for the sheet tucked around his chest.

"What did you…?" Castiel was confused, struggling to understand what had just happened, how a figment of his madness could have any effect on the outside world. He'd had his doubts, but he'd never seen any evidence…

"Don't say I never gave you anything," said Lucifer in a deep, humming tone, his focus riveted on the angel.

Meg had pulled the sheet away from Castiel. He could see it gathered below his waist. "Shall we see if anyone's home?" she asked him. And as she held him with her smile, she slipped her hand through the buttonless fly of his pajama pants, and then began…touching him…

Castiel felt strangely transfixed for a moment. Curious. Then uncomfortable. Then horrified.

"Make her stop," he mumbled.

"How can I possibly do that?" asked Lucifer, wide-eyed. "I'm not real." Then he grinned at him. They were both grinning at him.

The first phantom feeling the angel was aware of was a light, feathery, spiraling sensation, as if Meg's fingers were drawing delicate circles on his skin. The circles triggered a new feeling, a warmth that tingled through his lower body. The feelings themselves weren't unpleasant.

Castiel felt sick. "Please make her stop."

His brother was watching him with smoldering fascination. "Enjoy the ride while it lasts, Cassie." With a smirk he added, "I'm guessing it won't last long," then snorted with laughter.

The circles were quickening, the warmth intensifying, and the spread of sensation rising through him was becoming an insistent, aching pressure.

"Please," was all Castiel could manage. "Please."

"Please _what?_" whispered Lucifer.

"Please stop. Please make her stop."

"You want her to stop, little brother?" he asked softly.

"Yes. Please. Yes." His heart was pounding, it was getting difficult to breathe, and the intoxicating waves of new, unwanted sensation were getting harder to ward off.

"Then make her stop," intoned Lucifer. "Grab her hand and make her stop."

Castiel heard a whimper escape his own throat, and the frailty of its sound disgusted him.

"But you'll have to come out first," said Lucifer.

His feelings of helplessness, of exhaustion, of defeat against his own madness crumbled in this moment beneath the sense of violation at the hands of his tormentors—a lowly demon and a figment of his imagination. He was an angel of God. A soldier. This was a humiliation for which he could never forgive himself.

"_Come on out and play, Castiel._"

He despised himself for being so weak.

"Oh, forget it!" cried Meg suddenly.

The demon had abruptly withdrawn her hand. She was staring down in frustration and defeat, frowning. Lucifer looked at her, then followed her line of sight, and frowned as well. He clicked his tongue. "Oh Cassie. That's just embarrassing. You're not even trying."

Meg glanced up at the angel, tilted her slightly as if trying to get a better view of him. She looked a little sad. "There's really no one home, is there."

"Maybe you needed to knock a little harder," offered Lucifer.

"I'm sorry, angelcake," she sighed, reaching for her clothes on the floor, "but there's only so much rejection a demon can take."

"Aah! You see what you've done?" Lucifer fired a despairing look at his brother. He shook his head. "You make me sad. You really do."

"Besides," continued Meg, buttoning her blouse, "I've officially reached my boredom threshold. If your boyfriend expects me to babysit you when you're this boring, he's going to have to start paying me for my services. And I don't come cheap."

She slammed the door on her way out.

Castiel wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. He felt curiously uncomfortable now, his lower regions aching with a dull throb. The sensation was no longer pleasant. But it was over. That was all that mattered.

"And that, little brother," said Lucifer, moving close to the window, "is as easy as it's going to get. Next time I won't be so…" searching for the perfect word, searching through Castiel's mind, "… _pleasant_."

And with a sweep of his hand, as if pulling down a shade, the window went dark.

x


	4. Daphne

x

* * *

"Sweetheart? Emmanuel?"

Voices stirred him from the twilight in which his mind was adrift. He recognized the melodic tone of Daphne's voice before light sifted through the window.

"Can you hear me?"

"It's unlikely he can hear anything you say." The flat twang of Meg's voice.

"It's me, my love. It's Daphne. I'm here." The prickly sensation of warmth in his fingers told him she must be holding his hand. It wasn't as warm, as solid, as it used to be.

"Or that he has any idea who you are."

And the light filtering through the window was no longer as bright. It was as if his reception, his signal to the outside world, was gradually losing strength.

"Now we can't make any assumptions at this stage," interjected a third voice, this one belonging to the face Meg referred to as Dr. Kadinsky. "I think we should allow Ms. Allen—"

"Daphne. Please."

"—Daphne—a little time with her husband."

"_No_," said Castiel, to no one who could hear him.

Meg bristled. "Are you sure that's really—?"

"Nurse Masters," said her superior curtly. "After you."

"No," argued Castiel uselessly, "you can't leave her here…"

But Meg cast Emmanuel's wife a disdainful look, rolled her eyes and followed Kadinsky out of the room. Castiel heard the door close behind her.

She didn't say anything at first. She merely watched him. And Castiel thought she looked frail from too many sleepless nights. Shadows pooled beneath eyes that looked listless and ruddy from too many tears. But when she smiled, a light shone from within her, and as always, he was struck by her beauty. By the resilience and strength behind those eyes, the clarity of purpose that he remembered so well from the first day they met, that burned bright within her now. She was anything but frail, and he loved her for that.

And he desperately wanted to protect her.

"Oh, Emmanuel," she finally said. "You look so pale." She gently pressed her hand against his face, and he lifted his own hand to his cheek, pressing into the phantom touch of her fingers, wanting to feel them.

"You have to stop coming here," he warned her, knowing she wouldn't hear. "It isn't safe."

She just watched him, her eyes filling with fresh tears as she stroked his face.

"Please, Daphne," he begged in a voice unsteady with emotion. "Please go. Please just go."

"I brought you more flowers," she said then, and reached for the plastic pitcher at her side.

"Aww…" murmured a voice from somewhere out of Castiel's view, and he felt himself go cold.

"I think these have had their day." She laughed a little at the drooping daffodils that Meg had deliberately starved of water, and began replacing them with the spray of buds and blossoms that she'd brought with her.

She spoke then of the flowers they'd planted together, how the lilacs, irises and marigolds were in bloom now, how their colors lit up the garden. She spoke of people they both knew, names of neighbors and acquaintances he vaguely remembered, who had asked about him. She spoke of the house, and how empty it felt without him. And then she leaned closer and spoke of the long walks they once took on cold winter days, holding hands against the chill, of evenings spent in front of a crackling log fire and a bottle of red wine, talking and listening to one another until late in the night, and of falling asleep on the big bed upstairs in each other's arms. And he was drawn into the memories of his life as Emmanuel, into a world of safety, and warmth, and hope. A world in which he fell asleep night after night in the arms of a woman he loved. And woke every morning feeling safe, and loved, blessed beyond reason, and grateful for his life. A world that was never his. That he would never know again. But for just a short time, a brief flicker in his existence, it had given him something he had never truly known. Peace.

He peered up into the eyes of the human soul who had extended this precious gift to him, and felt a swell of emotion that he hadn't thought himself capable of. He reached for the window and pressed his hand against the glass, against the face that he would never again touch.

She brushed a tear from her face and struggled to smile. "I need you to come home now. I can't do this without you."

"Yes, you can," he whispered.

"I don't _want_ to," she blurted. "I don't understand why this is happening. We were happy. You were helping people. I don't understand any of this!"

"Do you want me to explain it to her?" breathed Lucifer, so close it might have been in Castiel's ear, but when he appeared he was sitting behind Daphne on the bed, his head perched on her shoulder, one arm draped across Castiel's legs, the other resting on her thigh.

Castiel flinched away from the window. "You have to go now, Daphne," he said in a desperate plea. "You have to go. Now."

"Don't be so pushy, little brother. Women don't like to be pushed. They like to be…" as he slid his hand up her thigh, "_lured._"

Daphne wasn't reacting to his touch. She couldn't feel it. Because it wasn't real. It couldn't be real. _He _couldn't be real. These were the knife-edged thoughts careening through Castiel's mind as Lucifer smiled innocently at him.

"I don't know how to help you," Daphne sobbed. "I don't know what you need."

"Is she as sweet as she looks, Cassie?" asked Lucifer. "Let's find out." And as he turned his head to the woman beside him, a long, forked, dripping tongue unfurled from his mouth and slowly slithered up Daphne's face, lashing up her tears.

Castiel stared, horrified, too shocked for a moment to speak.

Lucifer smacked his lips. "Even sweeter."

"Get away from her," Castiel finally choked out.

"Come out and make me."

"Emmanuel, please," Daphne whispered. "I need you to tell me what to do. How do I help you? What do you need? Please just tell me. Say the world and I'll do it. I'll do anything..." Her words disappeared in quiet sobs.

Lucifer groaned in ecstasy. "Ah, my favorite three words of the human language! I think I'm in _love!_" And he snaked his hand further up her thigh and between her legs.

"_Don't touch her!_" Castiel dove at the window, slamming his fists against the glass.

And Lucifer abruptly withdrew. A frown furrowed his brow, but the ghost of a smile played across his lips. "Now, Cassie," he began, in the strict, measured tone of a parent disciplining a child, "you're not that far gone yet. You know that I'm only a figment of your imagination. That I'm _you_." The frown vanished and the smile stretched. "_You're_ the one that wants your hand down her panties, little brother."

"Stop it…"

"Whatever you need," Daphne sobbed, "whatever it takes. I will fight for you. Until you're back home with me. Until you're in my arms again."

"Aww…" said Lucifer. "She's such an idiot."

"Emmanuel, you made a promise to me."

"Oh, this ought to be good…"

Castiel sank to the cold floor of his cell, helplessly watching the scene unfold.

Daphne drew closer to the window, and Lucifer moved with her, his cheek next to hers. "You told me that your life started the day we met. And no matter what happened before that day, you'd share everything after with me."

Lucifer breathed a soft hum, and leveled his gaze on Castiel. "I think I'm going to fuck her now."

Daphne closed her eyes, dreamily, as if in a swoon, as Lucifer ran his hand through her hair and down her neck, as he pressed his lips against her cheek.

"Emmanuel…" she sighed.

"What are you doing?" Castiel murmured, both horrified and confused by what he was watching.

"What do you think?" replied Lucifer breathily.

"No… please don't… please…"

Castiel watched in revulsion as Daphne responded now to each of his brother's touches, moaning softly with pleasure.

"Will you do anything?" whispered Lucifer.

"Please don't hurt her… I'm begging you."

"You didn't answer my question, Cassie." In that singsong lilt that he so enjoyed torturing Castiel with.

"What do you want?"

"_You know what I want_." And the hand caressing Daphne's neck suddenly seized her throat. Daphne gasped, choking, eyes snapping open wide in terror.

"Get out here," he barked at the angel. "_Now_."

Her hands flailed wildly at her throat, clawing desperately at the hand that clutched her airway closed.

Castiel looked on in his own terror and helplessness. "I—I can't—"

"You're lying."

"Please—"

"And she's dying."

"_Take your hand off her!_" the angel thundered from within his cell.

Lucifer merely sneered at him. "It's not my hand that's on her, Cassie."

The door to room 613 burst open then, and Castiel was dimly aware of someone—it turned out to be Meg—shouting "Holy shit!", then rushing to Daphne's side. Daphne was coughing, gasping for air, as she collapsed into Meg's arms.

Lucifer, Castiel noticed, had vanished.

"What the hell happened? Daphne?"

"I don't know," Daphne spluttered, "my throat—"

"Calm down. You're alright." It was Meg's best effort at a bedside manner.

"My throat was closed," she managed through a wheeze. "I couldn't get away. He—"

"He?" Meg glanced down at Castiel, frowning. "_He_ did something?"

"It happened so fast… he just grabbed my throat…"

Meg was still staring at Castiel.

"Why would he do that?" asked Daphne in a choked sob. "Why would he do that to me?"

"I don't know… It was probably some sort of involuntary muscle seizure. He couldn't have known what he was doing." But the look on her face, the fear, told Castiel she didn't believe that.

"But is he—will he be—?"

Meg was pulling the distraught Daphne to her feet, already ushering her out. "He'll be fine once we adjust his meds."

"But—more drugs? Maybe that's not—I don't think he needs—"

"You're going to have to leave now."

The door to 613 opened and closed. And, for a while, it was quiet again.

In the furthest corner of his cell, where Castiel had dragged himself, wedging himself as far as he could into the cold, austere bricks, fighting to control the violent trembling that coursed raggedly through his body, the angel made a decision. He could barely think straight, and there were several thoughts to the decision, but they all meant the same thing. And he would hold on to it as fiercely, as relentlessly, as he had once the soul he'd ripped from Hell.

He would never again move toward the window. He would never again move from the furthest corner. He would never again allow the outside to reach him.

x

* * *

x

It was as if his brother had heard the decision.

He appeared in the chair next to Castiel's bed.

"You know, there will be consequences for withdrawing," he said softly, without threat. It sounded like more of a warning.

He shifted in his chair. "I take it you understand now why I'd like you to come out."

Castiel said nothing.

Lucifer sighed, and when he spoke, there was no malevolence to his words, and no trickery or insincerity. He simply spoke the truth and Castiel recognized it.

"I've never wanted to hurt you, Castiel. I've only wanted to see you reach your true potential. To watch you become everything you were meant to be. And I'm still willing to wait…" He frowned slightly, thoughtfully, working through an idea in his head. "Because I know that something or someone is eventually going to draw you out, and when they do, I'll be here. Waiting. And together, you and me…" He leaned close to the window now, so close that Castiel could see the flames dancing in his eyes. "We'll finish what you started six months ago. What you failed at. And this time we'll get it right. This time we'll conquer the world, little brother. And then we'll devour it."

The frown gave way to a smile now. There was no malevolence in the smile; there was only anticipation. "And there's not a thing on this miserable little planet that can stop us. Or stop _me_… from reaching _you_."

x


	5. Sam

x

* * *

"Hey, Cas."

His vision had grown accustomed to the dusky haze of half-light that bled through his cell window. It shifted to a nebulous crimson glow whenever his brother was alone with him, which was most of the time, blasting him with venomous diatribes that lasted hours, sometimes days on end. So the sudden burst of light was startling, even painful. Castiel squinted and raised a hand against it.

"Me again."

It took him a moment. The view through the window wasn't as clear as it used to be; or maybe it was simply his perception that had fogged over. But the cell was half its original size, growing smaller, more tomb-like, by the day, and as the walls gradually closed in on Castiel, the window moved ever closer. It was his penance for refusing to move near it. And through it now he could see the familiar pensive expression, and the unmistakably warm smile, of the man whose mind he'd nearly shattered.

"No…no, no…" he choked out on a voice so thin it was barely audible.

"I see Kadinsky finally got you out of that bed," Sam said. "That was my suggestion, you know."

Castiel noticed now that the view through his window had changed. There was a table in front of him. He could see his own hands laying limply on its wood surface. And beyond that was another window, morning light spilling around the ancient symbol that blemished its glass.

"Why are you here, Sam? Why would you come back?"

"It's just you've been in that bed for…" Sam glanced down, exhaled a small, uneasy breath, then looked back up at Castiel. "I thought you might like a change of scenery. And I really wish I could open the window for you…" He glanced up at the symbol. "But Meg says it needs to stay shut. She thinks the sigils are still having an effect on you."

His gaze rested on the lifeless figure across from him. "Are they really?"

Castiel was touched by the profound sadness in Sam's question. "Probably not," he replied softly.

Sam smiled. "You must be getting sick of me by now."

The angel blinked at him. "What?"

"Dean says I should quit coming. He thinks coming here, seeing you like this, is putting me off my game."

Castiel felt as if he was in a daze. "You've been … coming here?"

"He's worried that I'm getting too attached."

Castiel struggled to organize his thoughts, his splintered, barbed memories of recent past, but he could extract nothing of Sam from the blur of pain and confusion. "Why can't I remember you being here…?"

"You've been a little off your own game, Cassie," his brother growled. He stood beside Sam, arms folded over his chest, glaring at Castiel. He looked furious. "That's what happens when you shut yourself off. This is one of those consequences I warned you about."

He took a step forward now, slammed both hands on the table and leaned into the cell window, blocking Sam. "How does it feel in there, Cassie? A little cramped? A little dark? It'll only get worse the more you pull away from me. Colder, darker, _tighter_... the window will get smaller, dirtier, it'll get harder to see through it, harder to hear, until one day you'll find yourself in that tiny little tomb of a cell, in the dark, all alone…for all eternity." His eyes were blazing. "_Is that really what you want?_"

"…should listen to him," Sam was saying.

Castiel shook his head, fighting back waves of confusion. "Wait… what?"

Lucifer threw his fist against the cell window, and Castiel flinched with the deafening shockwave that blasted through the cell. "_PAY ATTENTION!_" bellowed Lucifer.

And then he vanished. Leaving only Sam. Sam with his look of gentle concern and quiet empathy. His brother's raving, schizoid torment was nearly tolerable; but Sam's compassion, his need to help, was more than Castiel could bear right now.

"Maybe Dean's right," said Sam. "I keep thinking … maybe there's something I can do. Something I'll remember from my own experience that might help you. And so I keep coming back, hoping that maybe seeing you will jar something."

Castiel noticed the tears pooling in his eyes just before he glanced down.

"But all I see when I look at you…" Sam took a deep, unsteady breath. "…is me. Before we switched places. I mean, it's different because you're so closed off, you're so remote, and I was, well…" with an uneasy smile, "a grenade that wouldn't stop exploding."

"Some of my best work…" said Lucifer from somewhere in the room.

Sam slowly raised his gaze into Castiel's. "But that vacancy in your eyes … that look of being so far away, so lost, that you can't possibly ever find your way back…" Silent tears spilled freely now. He didn't try to stop them. "I recognize that. I remember."

"Don't do this to yourself, Sam," the angel pleaded.

"I remember feeling terrified. And more alone than I've ever felt in my life."

"Aaw," said Lucifer, somewhere nearby, clicking his tongue in mock sympathy, as Castiel looked down, the hand over his face trembling with guilt and self-loathing. He felt as if he was crumbling, and he was grateful for the solid, cold wall at his back, bracing him.

"And then _you_ were there," Sam continued. "I could feel your hand on me … and I don't know how, but I knew it wasn't _his_, I could feel it was different … There was so much pain, but I could feel the warmth, the strength…" Very softly he added, "…the love."

Castiel looked up at him now, his own tears blurring his view. It wasn't something he was used to.

Sam looked back at him, almost as if he could see him, with fervent intensity. "And this might sound strange, but I could feel _light_ shining through me. Reaching into me. Burning through all the darkness. And all of a sudden I knew, I just _knew_, I was gonna be okay. Because I wasn't alone anymore. Someone powerful, and bright, and _good_ was in there with me. Fighting for me." His voice broke with tears. "You brought me back, Cas. You gave me my life back. And maybe it's too late, but …"

"Don't," said Castiel in a quiet despair, looking down again.

"I never got to thank you."

"I never deserved it."

"Thank you, Cas."

"I don't want your gratitude…"

"You don't have much choice but to accept it."

Castiel glanced up at him, suddenly gripped by fear. Had he been heard?_ Could Sam hear him?_

Sam shrugged and offered a small smile. "But hey. If you want to argue with me about it, go for it." He paused for moment, searching Castiel's eyes. "Please."

And somewhere in the room, Lucifer blew his nose loudly into a handkerchief, then said in a delicate voice, "This is just so touching."

"There's something else I need to tell you."

"Oh God," groaned Lucifer, "If he tells you he loves you, I'm gonna vomit."

"Shut up," Castiel snapped.

"I'm just warning you."

"I never blamed you," said Sam.

Castiel stared at him, uncomprehendingly.

"Everything you did, all the lies, the betrayal… what you did to me. Bringing me back without a soul. Destroying the wall. You need to understand." He leaned very close. "_I never blamed you_."

"Oh, he's so lying…" hissed Lucifer, catty and effeminate now.

Castiel waited as Sam collected his thoughts.

"I mean, I was confused by it," Sam explained, "and there are still things I don't get."

"Here comes the _ly-ing_," chirped Lucifer.

And the angel might have believed him. Except that when Sam spoke next it was with calm, determined, and undeniable sincerity. "But you were doing what you thought was right at the time. You didn't see any other way. And most importantly… you thought you were alone. That you had no one backing you." He paused, leveling a stern look at him. "You know, you were wrong about that." Then paused again, as if to underscore the point. "But you couldn't see it at the time. You had the weight of Heaven and Earth on your shoulders, and you thought you were alone to bear it. And you stumbled. How couldn't you?"

He leaned back in his chair. "I'm not comparing myself to you, but I know a little bit about making incredibly bad choices under the pressure of responsibility. I know how it feels to betray someone you love." He smiled crookedly. "We've got the same someone in common there. The thing is, Cas, I am the last person who has any right to judge you. So I haven't."

Castiel was unused to the emotions stirring within him, surprised by their strength when they derailed the words he tried to express. When he finally steadied himself enough to speak, he found himself wishing, more so than ever since he became imprisoned here, that he could be heard. "Thank you, Sam."

"He's a real sweetheart, isn't he…" said Lucifer in a low murmur. He was standing beside Sam again, leaning next to the hospital window. Castiel had been so focused on Sam that he wondered if his brother had been standing there all along.

Lucifer was focused on Sam as well. He folded his arms over his chest, and he frowned. "I'm thinking maybe I should've kept him." And now he focused on the cell's prisoner. "What do you think, Cassie?"

Oblivious to the evil conspiring against him, Sam sighed. "Well. I guess I should go now." He stood, pulled his jacket from the back of the chair.

"Maybe I should grab him while I can," said Lucifer, leering lustily at Sam now, a predator targeting its prey.

"You—can't. You have no hold over him."

"I have a hold over _you_, buttercup. And you're an angel of the Lord! You can do anything you damn well please! That is…" and he beamed at Castiel. "Anything _I _damn well please."

"No," sputtered Castiel, terror and helplessness rising within him. "No. You stay away from him."

"Think I've said everything I needed to," said Sam.

"It would be so _easy_," taunted Lucifer. "I've had him before."

"Leave him alone," Castiel begged. "Please."

"A threesome could be fun."

Sam was pulling on his jacket. "You know, I do realize it was mostly me who needed to say it. But just the same…" He took a deep breath, steadier now, and looked down at Castiel. "I hope maybe there was some small part of you that…" He stopped there, unable to finish.

Lucifer draped an arm over his shoulder and winked at Castiel.

"Whaddayathink, Cassie? Is there some small part of you that has room for one more? Maybe in your little room upstairs?"

Castiel's fragile thread of composure snapped. "_Stay away from him!_" he shouted, feeling the walls around him shake, and defying his own promise, he bolted for the window.

Lucifer merely chuckled.

Sam was staring at Castiel wide-eyed.

"_Cas?_"

Sam fell back into this chair, his eyes locked on the angel's in a mix of excitement and uncertainty. "Cas, did you just…?"

Castiel shrank back from the window, shaking. "No…" he whispered. "What have I done?"

"You've come a little closer," crooned Lucifer in a low, silken tone. "Made my job a little easier." And he rested both his hands on Sam's shoulders.

Castiel felt exhausted. Utterly defeated. "Please, Sam. Please get out. Please…"

But Sam was still watching him, still searching for some spark that he thought he'd glimpsed.

"I'm begging you…" the angel said brokenly.

Lucifer leaned close to Sam's ear and breathed softly into it, "Aw, he's begging you, Sammy," and Castiel watched in abject horror as Sam's eyes fluttered closed, as his head rocked back, as he began to sink into Lucifer's control.

_Lucifer's control?_ thought Castiel miserably, disjointedly. _Or mine?_

"I think he wants you to join him," said Lucifer in Sam's ear. It wasn't an invitation. It was an instruction.

It took every last vestige of his strength, all that remained of his will, and as Sam's words played back in his mind—_powerful and bright and good_—Castiel concentrated on his friend, and said, "You. Need. To leave. _Now_."

Sam blinked as if waking from a dream. Hovering over his shoulder, Lucifer frowned at him.

"I need to leave now," Sam said. And then he stood, inadvertently knocking Lucifer to one side, and began gathering up his things from the table.

Castiel could feel the heat from his brother's glare, but he refused to meet it this time. He was simply too exhausted. He collapsed into the darkness of his cell, grateful for the cold solidity of the floor beneath him, for the walls so close they touched him on all sides now. They were inert, finite, impenetrable. And he would never escape them.

But he glanced up one last time to look at Sam, to be certain he was safe.

Sam had reached the door. Then stopped. His shoulders slumped a little as he turned back to Castiel. He was struggling to find the right words.

"You know, Dean is, uh… He wants to be here. He does."

He looked down then, and added so quietly that Castiel almost couldn't hear him, "I hope you're not aware enough to notice he's not."

And then, finally, he left.

x

* * *

x

He could just about see Meg's face in the dismal dregs of light that seeped through the window. He could see her lips moving before he could hear her, and when he did her voice drifted and crackled as if filtered through a tannoy. She seemed upset.

It was nearly impossible to move now. The walls pressed in on him from every side. There was nowhere to go, nothing he could do, but stare ahead at the scene that played out in front of him as if on a badly tuned television.

"That heart-shaped box of sweetness who brings you flowers and calls herself your missus has just signed the papers," she was saying. "Do you understand what that means, Castiel?"

Clearly she was upset. It was the first time she had called him by his actual name.

But he wasn't really listening. He was noticing an unimportant thing, the top button of her shirt that had fallen open.

"It means this hospital is authorized to start blitzing your brain with electricity. Apparently it's the treatment of choice for catatonic cases. I'm just not sure it's the treatment of choice for deranged angels corking enough juice to blow the entire state off the map. Not to mention mark a big burning X on the spot where Crowley and his band of cronies can find you."

She frowned. Recalibrating. "I mean—_me_."

She began pacing at the foot of his bed. And he thought to himself that she should button that top button. "Here's the thing, pizza man. I can't intervene without either giving myself away or losing my job here. So it's up to you now. You've got to show some sign of progress, _something_, and you've got to do it in a hurry, because they've got you scheduled for sizzling first thing tomorrow. And I have no idea what kind of an effect 450 volts frying your meatsuit's brain is going to have on you. I mean, it could…" She stopped pacing, looked directly at him, and in her expression he was certain he could see genuine worry for him.

But she did her best to shrug it off. "I just wouldn't want you to be rendered completely useless to us, you know? Although I can't see how you could be any more useless than you are right now." And as her fingers offhandedly fastened the top button of her shirt, she added, "You're helpless without me."

Castiel smiled. Just slightly.

She moved to his bedside now and leaned in close. "So what's it gonna take, huh? What do I have to do to get through to you?" He watched her grip his upper arm and squeeze. He felt nothing. Phantom feelings stopped long ago.

"Is there any part of you that's still plugged in? Or has all of this been just a colossal waste of time?" And then she hauled back and slapped him hard across the face.

He felt nothing.

She looked more upset now than before, almost startled by her own action, and she withdrew from him. She folded her arms around herself and took a deep breath. Quietly she said, "I'm sorry. I hope that didn't hurt you."

Castiel watched her, the demon who had been watching over him, and felt unexpected compassion for her. He noticed the single white calla lily that stood at an odd angle from the flowers in his plastic water jug, the flowers she scorned, and he suddenly wanted her to have it.

She stared down at him a while longer, seemed about to say something, then shook her head in frustration, and headed for the door.

"Thank you," Castiel said.

As Meg reached the door she turned back and looked at him, frowning again.

"For watching over me. You don't have to anymore."

She watched him with an odd expression, and once again he wondered if it was possible that anyone could hear him. He didn't think so.

She snatched the calla lily from the jug on her way out. It was the last time he saw her.

x

* * *

x

Lucifer had been ranting for a very long time.

It felt this time like weeks.

Flames had engulfed the room outside. Castiel had no idea if the hospital—or anything else—existed any longer, or if this was merely the stage design of his brother's one-man show, just part of the illusion.

The fire's red glow pulsed through the shrunken space of the tomb that his cell had become. With his back to the wall and his knees drawn up, there was nowhere left to move.

Through the window, Lucifer stormed back and forth, accusing Castiel of betraying him, his only brother, of turning his back on him the way their Father had. He recounted his sins in a litany of hateful condemnation, and Castiel was guilty on all counts. There would be no absolution. No appeal. There was no room any longer for calm reasoning. Now there was only rage.

Lucifer snarled and roared and spewed his rage like venom. It shook the entire cell with thunderous, jolting cacophony. It seared into its walls like the heat of a cremation. It plundered Castiel's mind, crushing any attempt to resist, decimating any sense of free will. And it was constant.

So exquisitely unrelenting was the rage—so loud, so violent, so consummate—that there was no space for thought.

Until the instant that it stopped.

There was sudden silence. His brother stood at the window, his hands pressed against either side, and peered in at his prisoner. For the first time in longer than Castiel could recall, he spoke in a measured, calm, almost gentle voice, and his every word was a promise. "I will inhabit your body and use it to destroy every human you've ever cared about. I'll start with your wife. As she looks into your eyes and begs you to stop, I will rape her, repeatedly, then skin her alive as she screams your name."

Castiel listened. But in his shell-shocked mind, still ringing from incessant rants and raves, he was thinking of a shirt button.

In that same soft voice, Lucifer was describing in horrific detail how he would violate Jimmy Novak's wife and daughter before slaughtering them. Castiel heard. But he was thinking now of a calla lily.

"And finally," said Lucifer in the tone one uses to lull a child to sleep, "I will ingratiate myself into the lives of the brothers you're so fond of. I will regain their friendship, rebuild their trust, inspire their love. And then I will eviscerate them. Sam first, so that Dean can watch. So that the last thing he sees … is who you really are."

Castiel couldn't clearly hear him now, because his thoughts were replaying the last time he saw Sam … Sam rising from his chair, needing to leave, walking away. Simply because Castiel had wanted it.

"All of this I promise you, little brother," said Lucifer in nearly a whisper. "Unless you join me now. Come out, stand at my side, and I'll spare your human pets." The flames in his eyes were dancing again. "All you have to do is decide."

And Castiel thought then of the first time they'd had this conversation, the memory so fragile and frayed it nearly crumbled as he grasped it, but there was something else his brother had said to him then…

_You sometimes forget_

…something important…

_just how powerful you are_.

"So go on," said Lucifer icily. "Decide."

Castiel decided.

He raised his hand and snapped his fingers, and Lucifer was incinerated in a detonation of brilliant white light.

The cell walls shuddered with the force of the blast. It lasted only a moment, a dazzling conflagration of pure white, and when it flashed out, all that remained were tiny bright embers cascading past the window, shimmering against a black backdrop.

The angel glanced at his fingers, appreciatively.

As the last of the embers burned out, the window blackened, and his tomb fell into darkness.

Utter darkness.

Utter silence.

And Castiel was now utterly alone.

x


	6. Dean

x

* * *

"Hey."

The sound jolted him from his fugue. He opened his eyes to all-consuming blackness. He'd long since lost all sense of time, but silence was such a constant now that its breach seemed impossible. Surely just a remnant, a broken piece, of who he used to be. Sounds and thoughts and images sometimes drifted ghost-like through his mind, as disconnected and random as human dreams. They were no more real than Lucifer had been.

Castiel let himself drift.

"You, uh… you up for company?"

His breath seized in his throat. Fragments of reason, of logic, rose against the swell of panic—_not real_, _not possible_, _I'm hallucinating_—but he couldn't stop himself from uttering, "Dean…?"

And when he did, as if flipping a switch, light flickered through the window. He blinked against it, both startled and dazzled by even the dim glow. Through the window, sitting across from him at the table, he could just about see Dean.

"I mean, _more _company. Don't know how you can stand all these people hovering over you. Just passed Daphne on her way out. And I know Sam was here again."

Castiel felt disoriented, lost. He of course had no memory of any of these visits. His awareness of the outside had been shut down for what seemed a very long time, though perhaps time moved differently for him. He couldn't remember who had he had seen last, and he couldn't understand why anyone would keep coming.

"I told him not to, but he was hell-bent on seeing you after your… after they…" Dean cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Your doctor says that electro thing was a bust. That you're worse off now than before. 'Course Meg says the fact that you didn't explode makes it a huge success." He tried to smile.

"I shouldn't be able to see you…" Castiel hadn't heard his own voice in so long that it sounded alien to him, and unnaturally flat in the claustrophobic space. "…and you shouldn't be here…"

Dean shifted again, then stood up and began pacing.

"I, uh… I know I haven't been around. And I'm sorry. But, you know, there's been a lot going on with…you know, with the, uh…"

He stopped pacing, dragged a hand over his face. "Yeah. Screw it. I haven't been around because I knew it would hurt like a bitch to see you like this." He glanced down at Castiel. "And I was right."

"Then go…" said the angel quietly. "Just go."

Dean didn't go, but he did resume his pacing.

"Meg's got you propped up in that chair like you're waiting for your morning coffee, like you're gonna open up and start talking sports any second … I mean, not that you'd ever talk sports, that'd be a miracle in itself, right up there with the immaculate conception…" He fidgeted, looking awkward. "I don't know what I'm saying. I guess I'm just…"

He stopped again. He leaned against the back of his chair and faced Castiel.

"…a little uncomfortable. Your doctor—that Kozinski, Kobinki dude, whatever—he said I should just talk to you. You know. Like you might join in at any time."

He leveled his gaze on Castiel then, really looking at him for the first time, and Castiel noticed a subtle shift in the quality of light, the window view clearing slightly.

"Any time, Cas," Dean said softly.

"I'm sorry, Dean…"

Dean began shuffling around the room again, restless and unsettled, clearly uncertain how to act, what exactly to do here. "So Meg thinks the way you are right now is for the best," he said, keeping his head down, thinking, as he spoke. "She thinks you're deliberately holding all the crazy inside, keeping it contained, 'cuz the second you let go… She says you're a nuclear bomb, and when you finally blow you'll take half the country with you. You're that dangerous. And that's why you'll never come back."

"She's not wrong."

"And that lady of yours—Daphne." He cast the angel an appreciative glance. "She's a hell of a woman, Cas. You did alright. She, uh… she's a little naïve though. She really believes she can take care of you, even if you're a drooling head of lettuce. She's been pleading with the hospital to let her take you home. Thinks she can nurse you back to health." With a flippant smirk, "Love you back to sanity."

He paused by the hospital window and stared out for a moment, his fingers drumming anxiously on its sill. He seemed to be struggling with something. In a voice soft and full of emotion, he finally said, "No. No, she doesn't. She just wants you back in whatever way she can have you… I know you were only with her a few months, but man, she couldn't be more in love with you." He shot a pointed look at Castiel. "You obviously showed her a side of yourself we didn't see much of those last few months."

He crossed his arms over his chest and wandered back to the table. "I'll tell ya, I've never seen anyone so willing to sacrifice absolutely everything for…" And then his eyes were on Castiel again. "Well, maybe I have."

"Please go now, Dean," the angel pleaded wearily. The hunter's presence seemed to palpably push in on him. He felt targeted by every one of his looks. Disarmed somehow. It wasn't the way he'd felt with Lucifer… This was different. This felt…

_like connection_

And Castiel couldn't allow it.

Dean exhaled a deep breath. "Then there's Sam. He, uh…he's pretty broken up about you. He actually feels _guilty_, can you believe it? Runs in the Winchester blood, I guess, senseless guilt. …He remembers what it was like for him toward the end… and he thinks you're mostly gone now."

"He's not wrong either."

Dean sat across from him now, narrowing his eyes on Castiel, and the angel felt immediately uneasy. "But that last time he came back from seeing you? He said there was this one point, just for a second, when he thought he saw something… a reaction… _some_thing…"

"A mistake I won't make again…" said Castiel miserably, remembering now. Remembering Sam's visit, remembering the last time he saw Meg. And how he'd reached through the glass barrier and _pushed_ them with his thoughts.

Dean leaned back in the chair. "'Course he's convinced himself since that he probably imagined it. That it was just something he wanted to see. He can't let himself give up on you, but he doesn't know what to hold on to."

He shrugged now, and sighed. "And that's what everyone thinks."

"Thank you," said Castiel, concentrating this time. "Now go."

Dean was watching him intently. "And then there's me. I haven't been around, but I've been listening. Hearing what everyone says. Thinking. And I've, uh… I've sort of been drawing my own conclusions."

Castiel couldn't help noticing that Dean wasn't going.

"You interested?"

Castiel tensed. The ever-brightening light made him feel vulnerable, exposed. "No. I don't care what you think. I want you to _leave_. _Now._"

A flicker of a crease on Dean's brow. A glint of uncertainty in his eye. Both disappeared when he smiled. "I'll take your silence as a yes."

Human physiology shouldn't have affected him, but the angel was finding it difficult to breathe. He could feel a cold sweat dampening his brow. This was absurd. Dean Winchester wasn't a threat, and yet he felt cornered. Perhaps it was the outright indifference with which he responded to Castiel's direct orders, the same orders that worked so well with everyone else.

But then Dean had always ignored Castiel's orders.

"So the general consensus," continued Dean, "is you're a lost cause. You're either incapable of coming back or there's nothing left of you to even _come _back. But here's what I think."

He leaned in, conspiratorially, and fixed his eyes on Castiel's. "I think you once gate-crashed Hell to reach in and steal one of Satan's prized souls. I think you defied God Himself by turning your righteous wings on his Apocalypse Now. I think not that long ago you nearly destroyed the planet. I think you're one of the most powerful badass beings that has ever existed, and I do not for a second think that you've suddenly become helpless. I think you've passed judgment on yourself for crimes against heaven and humanity, and the sentence is imprisonment. For eternity. I think you've deliberately locked yourself away from everyone and everything, and I think you've got the only key." He paused. "How am I doing so far?"

Castiel was too stunned by the hunter's words to respond, too astonished at hearing his own privately held truth spoken aloud so candidly, so brazenly.

"I think you're in full control right now."

"Dean…" Looking in his friend's eyes was becoming unbearable. He raised a hand to his forehead, blocking his own view. "You don't understand … what I'm doing is—"

"It's a cop-out," said Dean.

Castiel's hand fell away and he simply stared back now.

"I think you're scared. You don't want to face up to what you did, you don't want to face up to yourself. You're not sure what you are anymore, what you might be capable of. Well, you know what?" His cool, matter-of-fact composure was slipping slightly. "_Get over it_. You're nothing special, Cas. Human beings do it every day. We screw up, we live with the aftermath. Sammy and I are masters of the art."

Dean looked down, breathing heavily, fingers drumming the table. And then they stopped. Quietly he said, "I know you're not human. I just remember you telling me once…" his voice a little unsteady with emotion, "…that you'd learned some things from us. About integrity. About standing up for yourself."

When he looked up, there were tears in his eyes. "It's time to stand up again, Cas. It's time to come back. Face what's happened. You won't stand alone… I won't _let _you stand alone."

Castiel slumped into his corner, feeling more helpless in this moment than he had when facing Lucifer. Feeling his confidence erode with Dean's emotional appeal. It was more of a prayer than a plea when he whispered, "Please leave me…please…"

He heard Dean's chair squeak as he leaned back into it, and when he finished his prayer, he found Dean watching him thoughtfully, curiously. His head was tilted back slightly, as if he was studying the angel (and Castiel had to remind himself that Dean couldn't actually _see_ him…).

"How is it I can … _feel _you … pushing me away?"

Castiel was more interested in how Dean could so effortlessly push _back_.

"I thought I was imagining it at first…" Dean narrowed his eyes, sifting and weighing his thoughts. "But I think that's what you want me to think. What you wanted Sam to think." He paused, feigning a frown. "See, Cas, the trouble there is, the harder you push, the stronger I feel it. The more convinced I am that I'm right about you. You see the flaw in that plan?"

He crossed his arms, still studying Castiel, but with an air of satisfaction, his conclusions already drawn. "You think you're unreachable, don't you."

Castiel was thrown completely off-guard by the statement.

They watched each other for a long moment, silently.

"I remember thinking that about myself once," Dean finally said, sounding casual and off-handed. "For about forty years." His lips tipped in a wry smile. "You know, I've always wondered … When you stormed Satan's funhouse, or whatever the hell you did, gripped me tight and raised me from the pit … did I put up a fight? Tell you it was too late? I didn't deserve to be saved? Get the hell away from me?"

Maybe it was exhaustion, or the creeping sense of futility, but Castiel couldn't help half-smiling. "The words you used were … 'fuck off'."

"Did you listen?" Dean's own smile vanished, and he leaned in close again. Softly he asked, "Do you think _I_ will?"

Quelling unfamiliar emotions once came easily to the angel. There was a simplicity to it, a tactical elegance to the strategy. But so many were surging within him now, sweeping past his sense of logic, entangling his defenses, that it was becoming difficult even to think, let alone strategize. He was simply too tired to hold them off.

"You know, you can be a real dick sometimes," his friend across the table said. "You can make stupid mistakes. There've been times I've just wanted to…" He made a wringing gesture with his fists. "But you're not evil, Cas. You don't deserve this. I know you and me, we've got our trust issues. And the last time I asked you to trust me, you wouldn't do it. And look how that turned out." He shot Castiel the same look that Sam did when chiding the angel for discounting his friends.

"So this time I'm not asking. I'm telling you. As your—" He faltered on the word _friend_, and swiped away the lone tear that dared to belie his ferocity. "As your brother. Trust me. You don't deserve this."

With that, Castiel's hold on his emotions gave way, and rage was the first one through. "I made a decision, Dean. I want you to respect it. I _demand_ you respect it! I don't want your forgiveness, I don't want your compassion, and I don't want you to _fight _for me! _That _is what I don't deserve!" He was shaking with rage. He didn't care that he couldn't be heard, that he couldn't be seen. He couldn't understand what was happening, how a mere human could challenge his carefully designed severance from the world, the exile that ensured he would never hurt anyone again, how _he _could lose control over it, but as the mere human stared back with his steely resolve, Castiel realized his own was crumbling.

"Why are you doing this?" he demanded. "Why did you come back? I betrayed you, Dean! Why are you here? _Why aren't you turning your back on me the way I did you?_"

Dean seemed untouched by the angel's meltdown. Quietly, reflectively, almost to himself, he said, "Good things do happen, Cas."

And that was the angel's breaking point. His own words offered up to him, as he'd once offered them to his new charge, the man who would become his closest friend and ally, the man he would betray and nearly destroy, who spoke the words now with a faith Castiel lost long ago, broke his heart.

The anger was gone. There was nothing left but grief.

"Cas…?" Dean's expression had changed. The look in his eyes had changed. They widened with a mix of hope and uncertainty. "Hey," he said gently, and the sudden smile lit up his whole face. "You're leaking, dude."

"I'm … what?"

And with a small, nervous laugh, he reached a hand toward Castiel's face, and Castiel realized with bewildered shock that he was wiping away a tear with his thumb.

He would have recoiled further into the cell, disappeared entirely into its darkness, were he not already pressed implacably against the wall behind him. It wasn't yielding.

Dean's hand fell on his shoulder, further refusing his exit—

and Castiel could somehow _feel_ the tight grip—

"C'mon, Cas, talk to me. Say something. _Talk to me._"

He had no strength left to push Dean away with.

Dean's chair nearly toppled as he leapt from it, grabbing his friend by both shoulders now, shaking him roughly—

Pushing Dean away wasn't exactly working anyway.

"Time to come back, Cas, c'mon!"

The sort of entreaty Lucifer had used not long ago. _S__omeone is eventually going to draw you out_, he'd told him, _and when they do, I'll be here_. Had he really destroyed that part of himself? That embodiment of evil? Or would it always be there, waiting? He couldn't trust himself with that decision. He couldn't trust his own thinking anymore. And in that moment, unable to fight, unable to think, the angel simply gave up.

And Dean seemed to feel that too. Seizing the lifeless vessel by his shirt collar in both fists, wrenching him from his chair, he shouted, "Goddamnit, Cas, _don't you back off!_"

But it was Dean who backed off, perhaps when seeing the fleeting light in the vessel's eyes fade. With a grunt of frustration, he released him, and sank back into his chair.

"Okay," he said shakily, looking down at the table, trying to pull his own emotions under control. "Fine. That's fine…"

But Castiel thought he didn't sound fine with it at all. He sounded pissed off. And like he'd just been challenged…

Dean took a deep breath. He was regrouping. Calming down. And when he finally looked up, his eyes shone with clarity. And something that made Castiel wince slightly. A kind of righteous determination. Castiel had the sense that a battleline had just been drawn, and he was on the wrong side of it.

"Right," Dean said evenly. "So that's what I think. Now here's what I know." He leaned in close, looked at him squarely, and clasped his hands on either side of Castiel's face. A startled whimper escaped Castiel as he both heard the slap of palms and _felt _their warm crush against his face.

"Are you listening, Cas? 'Cuz I don't want you to miss this part." Dean spoke softly, emotionally, but with firm, unwavering conviction. "I'm giving you notice. Whatever's going on in there, whatever you think you're doing, it's almost over. Because I'm ending it. I haven't figured out yet how to pull you out, but I will. So don't get too comfortable in there, because I'll be reaching in and ripping you out soon. Just like you did me. I won't be leaving any handprints, but I _will _be dragging you back." He slapped the angel's face harshly, and Castiel felt the sting. "_Are you hearing me?_"

Castiel noticed in that instant a hairline crack skittering across the glass that separated him from Dean. He gazed back at his friend, who seemed so impossibly to be looking directly at him, waiting for a response. Softly, Castiel said, "Yes."

Dean withdrew then. As if he'd heard. He frowned for a moment, looking down at the table. "I know I don't have your resources, your power, and I really don't know what's going on in there. But here's the thing, Cas. You may be this world-whumping uber-angel…" He looked up at Castiel now, smiled just a little, and shrugged. "But I'm Dean Winchester."

He reached across again and placed his hand, gently this time, against Castiel's cheek, and Castiel could feel its warmth.

"And I'm not losing you again," said Dean. "Got it?"

It struck Castiel that a decision had just been made for him. And there was almost a sense of freedom in that, a lifting of the unbearable weight of decisions he'd been carrying for so long, good and bad, right and wrong, well-intentioned and cataclysmic. He'd once stumbled beneath their weight, Sam had told him. But Castiel knew he'd done more than stumble. He'd fallen. He'd been falling ever since.

And now this human, his closest friend, was somehow deciding to reach in and catch his fall. He didn't know that he could allow it, but he didn't know that he could stop it. Somehow Dean's will was outshining his own.

"Got it," said Castiel.

Dean smiled at him. Somehow—

_because he can't possibly hear me … can he?_

—it was a smile both of affection and of victory. "Good," he said.

He didn't seem too concerned about his own tears anymore. They fell without him taking much notice, even when the door opened behind him.

"I'm afraid time's up, Mr. Smith," said the voice of Dr. Kadinsky. "We don't want to wear him out. You can come back tomorrow."

Dean nodded to Kadinsky, but his eyes never left Castiel's. "I will," he said.

The angel watched him stand, zip his jacket, dig into a pocket for his car keys. He seemed aware that the doctor was waiting for him at the door, within hearing distance, because when he leaned in close one last time, the phantom presence of his hand on Castiel's shoulder firm and steadying, his voice was barely above a whisper as he said, "Pack your stuff, Cas. Tomorrow I'm breaking you out."

As Dean left the room and the door fell shut, the view through the window remained this time, brighter and clearer now than it had ever been. The glass was transparent, marred only by the tangle of thin, reed-like cracks that reached across its surface.

Castiel closed his eyes and waited for tomorrow.

xxx


End file.
